


cold air, warm heart

by soldmyscars



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Idiots in Love, M/M, Schmoop, what baby, what wife, whistles innocently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 02:50:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1588871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soldmyscars/pseuds/soldmyscars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the heater's broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cold air, warm heart

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the crappy weather where i live. forget spring, it's still winter here. /harrumphs
> 
> alsoooo this is my first try writing ian/mickey. go easy on me y/y? :]

The first thing Mickey hears after he walks in the door and tosses his keys on the kitchen counter, aside from the low drone of the TV, are Ian's teeth. They're chattering, just like they had been when Mickey left. The first thing he _sees_ is his breath when he exhales, and he's not smoking.

"Fuck," he mutters, dumping the meagre amount of supplies he'd picked up – bread, milk, eggs – on the floor and leaving them there. No doubt they'll stay colder where they are than in the fridge.

Their heater, it's been on the fritz for two weeks now, and shows no sign of coming back to life. Mickey's tried fixing it (kicking it repeatedly had probably done more damage than help, but ask him if he cares) and Ian's called their landlord multiple times to try and get him to come take a look, but hasn't been able to get a hold of him. Dirtbag's probably too busy getting blitzed with his junkie girlfriend to care.

The situation hasn't done wonders for either of their moods, but Mickey would still choose freezing his ass off in their tiny ghetto apartment with Ian than being moderately comfortable anywhere else without him. Fuck that shit.

Mickey toes off his boots and kicks them in the corner, but leaves his coat and gloves – fingerless; ideal for smokers everywhere – on when a shiver runs through him.

"Mick?" Ian calls from the livingroom, sniffling. "That you?"

Mickey rolls his eyes before following his boyfriend's voice. "You expectin' someone else?" he answers, coming to a halt and leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed as he takes in the scene before him.

Ian's wrapped up in the holey afghan they keep on the couch, socked feet curling in the carpet and shoulders hunched as he watches whatever's on TV. There's an empty cup-of-soup container on the cushion next to him, knocked over. His hair's flat on one side and tufted up at the top, like he just woke up. He looks like a sad burrito, but when his gaze meets Mickey's his disposition changes and he smiles, lighting up. "Hey," he says.

Mickey's not sure he'll ever get used to coming home to somebody who's actually _happy_ to see his ugly mug. For as long as he gets to keep this, it'll stun him every time. 

He wants to make fun of Ian, maybe snark at him a little more, but that stupid feeling in his chest overrules his thoughts and a crooked smile breaks out on his face instead. He walks over to Ian and leans down to kiss him.

Moments like this never used to happen. He never used to be able to give in to affection without threats and memories hanging over his head, stopping him. After so many years living in a constant state of fear, it's surreal to be able to finally do things like normal couples do. To do what he'd thought about doing countless times in the past, but never had the guts to.

Mickey keeps expecting to wake up cold and bruised and in the dark, loneliness clogging his throat until he can't even swallow. If this is just a dream, because he does believe that's possible, he hopes somebody offs him in his sleep before the reality can set in. He wants _this_ to be the last thing he sees, hears, tastes, smells, and feels.

Right now, though, he's alive and he's here and he's going to fucking enjoy it.

Ian's lips are cold but responsive, and what Mickey had intended to be a chaste hello turns into something longer when Ian tugs him in by his coat lapels, surging up against him like he's trying to suck the heat right out of Mickey's lungs. The movement causes him to stumble, disrupting his balance and before Mickey knows it he's pinwheeling forward and toppling onto Ian's lap with a muffled curse. 

Mickey levels Ian with an unimpressed look when their lips part and Ian snorts out a small laugh, kissing him a few more times in quick succession until the line between Mickey's brows softens, and then fades away completely. Ian's hands run up and down Mickey's thighs, pausing briefly to rub at the tender spot he'd banged into the coffee table. He mouths at Mickey's jaw, biting the joint, gentle, and then moves on to his neck. His nose is like an icicle as he nuzzles in, seeking warmth.

Mickey huffs and tilts his head, letting him have at it. He regards Ian with half-closed eyes. "I was gone for like, twenty minutes," he says, amused.

Ian snags Mickey's earlobe with his teeth. "I missed you anyway," he murmurs, and there's no way he doesn't notice the small noise Mickey makes as the words hit him, not when they're so close.

"You're such a fucking girl," Mickey says roughly, to cover it up. It's feeble; _I missed you too_ goes unspoken and they both know it. 

Ian grins. His fingers toy with the hem of Mickey's sweater. When he slides his frigid hands up to the bare skin beneath, Mickey hisses. Goosebumps follow in the wake of Ian's touch, traveling up his spine. In his attempt to evade it, his back arches and he ends up plastering himself to Ian's front. "Shut up," he says, when Ian laughs at him again.

"Make me."

The _me_ hasn't even fully left Ian's lips before Mickey's on him, forcing Ian's mouth open when they collide. Ian doesn't give up easily, the jut of his chin playful but stubborn. It's only when Mickey growls and threads his fingers through his hair, tugs on it sharply, that he does go pliant, letting out a grunt that vibrates between them and goes straight to Mickey's dick. Mickey releases Ian's hair and pets the nape of his neck, sucks on his tongue in reward, the motion languid.

Ian chases him when he tries to move back, angling them together to his liking and not allowing Mickey to pull away. Even when Mickey's in the position of power, the one who's won, Ian still manages to be the bossiest fucker he's ever met. Mickey can't say he doesn't like it.

They make out like that until they can't, until the need to breathe is too urgent. Mickey's mouth aches, sore and swollen and hot.

"Tell me you bought lube," Ian says. It sounds like both a plea and a demand. His nails dig in to Mickey's shoulder blades and drag down his back, like he's trying to regain Mickey's attention. He doesn't need to.

"I did, but don't think you can fuck me with your cock frozen like that, Gallagher," Mickey teases, starting to slowly rock his hips. He smirks when Ian bucks up to meet him. "Gotta warm it up first, yeah?"

Ian worms his hands into Mickey's jeans, grabbing his ass and squeezing as they continue to grind. Mickey bites his bottom lip. They stare at each other. "Yeah," Ian says lowly. "Shouldn't take long." 


End file.
